Her Christmas Morning

My mother was standing at the shore, holding a child's hand in hers. The waves swirled high and close and she became aware that her other hand was being held by someone she could not see. She worried about the waves, that they would wash the child out to sea. She held on tight. She called out, "Help me with this child, please help me." The woman who helps her appeared at her bedside, asking if she was okay. My mother said, "Please help me with this child." The woman who helps her whose name is Mavis said, "There is no child Grandma, you were dreaming." It had all been so real my mother didn't believe her. She had felt the sand under her feet, tasted the salty spray, loved the sea breeze rustling her hair. "A dream?" she said, confused. And then she saw that she was in her room at my brother's house in Kingston, Jamaica, her nine-year-old grandson skidding down the hall, yelling, "Merry Christmas, Grandma! Grandma, look what I got!" And then she knew she had been dreaming, and it was okay.